No Pain So Great
by rynogeny
Summary: AU take on what happened after Wannabe in the Weeds. Veers back to canon by end of story. Spoilers through S4's Mayhem on a Cross. Rated M for language.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I don't know how many Bones fics I'll do -- with the exception of my LOTR stuff, most of my fanfic results from things which bother me in a show I otherwise love -- scenes which feel unfinished, relationships I want to further explore, etc. With Bones, I'm mostly content with how the series is going, and am content to wait for what HH and Co. give us. The exception to that is the mess which was the follow-up to Wannabe in the Weeds. The beginning of PitH is the low point of the entire show for me -- I feel like they sold out everything they'd established about both Booth and Brennan for a laugh (the bathtub scene) and as for Sweets...I didn't begin to warm up to him again until Mayhem on a Cross. With a degree in psychology (and advanced grad work, though I never practiced) what he did was beyond unethical. (I'll stop that with, rather than bore you with the rant I'm quite capable of going on at this point.)

So...this is AU, though by the end of the story it veers back to canon, or close to it. Although it's set after WitW, it contains mild spoilers for S4.

The M rating is solely for some language. I don't normally swear myself, but just couldn't convince the two characters not to, given the situation.

* * *

_Sunday, 3AM_

"I'm sorry."

Later, much later, it would occur to her that the doctor seemed unnaturally uncomfortable speaking those words. At the time, she registered it as the expected response of a young doctor not yet used to breaking apart the lives of survivors.

Later, much later, she would wonder…if she had been able to pay more attention to what the doctor said next, would she have seen the incongruences in the reasons he was giving for why the death had occurred? But her shock at such a sudden deterioration from 'good prognosis' to 'I'm sorry' had temporarily reduced even the mighty brain of Temperance Brennan to blankness.

Angela was weeping. Hodgins was swearing softly. Zach had a completely blank look on his face, and Cam, appearing equally stunned, was nevertheless grilling the increasingly nervous looking doctor.

Carefully, afraid the next thing to break would be herself, Brennan turned and left the hospital waiting room. It was odd, she thought as she drove home, that she was aware that her mind was empty. Not being aware of feelings wasn't unusual for her. Not thinking…that was beyond rare.

Uncomfortable with the sensation, she tried to force herself to normality. Booth was dead. Normal required that she consider that, examine it from all angles, and then do whatever came next. Booth was dead, she ran the words through her mind again – he'd died after stepping into a bullet for her. The scene at the club replayed itself, and she let it, thinking perhaps she could make sense of the whole thing that way.

But Booth was still dead.

She walked into her apartment and stood there in the darkness for several long minutes, unsure of exactly what did come next. Then she glanced down, and saw the blood. His blood. Even knowing she'd never wear the green top again, she was careful when she unbuttoned it and dropped it on the floor as she made her way to the bathroom.

So much blood. Despite working with bones, not tissue, she was used to blood. But not his.

Barely aware of stripping off the rest of her clothes, she ran the water as hot as she could stand before stepping under the spray.

It was essential she remain calm. Rational. Focused. There was no point whatsoever in giving in to some emotional storm.

He would still be dead.

Gone from her, like so many others – her parents, Russ, the one set of foster parents she'd liked. Granted, her father and Russ had come back into her life, but still…the memory of that hollow feeling when she'd understood they had left her was there.

Booth hadn't _wanted _to leave her. It seemed important, somehow, to recognize that. He'd died saving her. Died being the hero. Died being Booth.

But the result was the same. He was gone.

No more companionable cups of coffee at the diner. No more shared beers after a case. No more arguments in the truck. No more guy hugs.

No more knowing there was someone besides herself to count on in her life.

And then she thought of Parker. Under the water, she actually staggered with the awareness that whatever her loss was, his would be greater. She tried to imagine Rebecca telling the little boy he'd never see his father again, and couldn't.

Even as an adult who'd spent half her life assuming that her parents had perished, the confirmation of her mother's death had been a blow. What would his father's death at such a young age do to Parker?

Tears began to fall, mixing with the hot water. Parker's fate wouldn't be hers. She knew that. He'd never know a foster home, as he had not only Rebecca but her parents who, according to Booth, doted on him. But still, imagining the little boy's loss tore a sob from her throat.

It was irrational to dwell on it having been her fault. Booth could have died a hundred times. Any given day could have been the day he didn't duck fast enough.

But it hadn't been, and he hadn't been ducking at all. He'd been leaping in front of the gun. To save her.

And now, he wasn't coming back.

Broken, she sank down to the floor of the tub, her tears mixing with the water and his blood.

The part of her brain that remained stubbornly rational gave her until the water ran cold to indulge herself in the catharsis. And when it did, when she realized she was shivering, she reached up and turned off the faucet before standing and grabbing a towel. Methodically, she dried off and then applied her lotion, distantly aware of taking comfort in the ritual.

And then she did what Temperance Brennan always did when faced with the unfaceable. She went to work.

* * *

_Sunday, 11PM_

Apart from the short nap she'd taken that afternoon in her office, she'd spent the entire day working by herself in the lab. No one else had come in – not surprising for a Sunday – and the quiet had been just what she needed to get her balance back.

And she'd identified two sets of remains from bone storage.

But she'd reached her physical limit. It was time to go home. At least with no FBI cases to work, she'd be able to continue making progress on bodies awaiting identification. It was probably best not to think about that too much, though, given why it was so.

Stretching, she took off her lab coat and reached for her handbag. Noting the light on her cell phone was blinking, she glanced at the readout, puzzled to see how many calls she'd missed. Angela. Cam. Angela. Hodgins. Her father. Angela. Russ. Cam. Her father. Sweets. Russ. Angela. Her father. Confused, it took a moment to remember that she'd put it on vibrate at the hospital and thus hadn't heard it ringing.

Just as well, as she'd made a lot of progress identifying bones that she wouldn't have made if she'd talked to everyone who called her. She supposed they wanted to talk about Booth, but it was still puzzling. What was there to say, after all?

And why had her father and Russ called her so many times? It was really very strange.

* * *

_Monday, 11AM_

It was with a feeling of relief that she left the lab for an early lunch meeting. Her co-workers were all going to lunch together, and Angela, at least, had seemed quite dismayed that Brennan wasn't going. But after an entire morning of trying to work while those around her talked of nothing but Booth, or in Angela's case, cried over Booth…she was grateful for the appointments she'd made first thing that morning with her accountant and her lawyer.

Heading back to the Jeffersonian afterward, she felt pleased with the decisions she'd made. No one seemed to know whether Booth's death would be considered in the line of duty or not, a detail which would affect the payout Rebecca would receive for Parker. Although she was certain that Booth would have additional policies in place to protect his son, she'd felt it necessary to do something as well.

It felt good to have set up a trust fund for the little boy. Regardless of whether the FBI judged the shooting as line of duty or not (after all, while related to the case they'd just been working, they'd been on their own time) Parker would have plenty of money for college. She hoped Booth would have approved.

And then, while there, she'd done something similar for Amy's little girls. Russ wouldn't like it if he found out – he wanted to provide for them – but, well, he didn't need to know right away. And it wasn't as if she were going to have children of her own to provide for.

* * *

_Monday, 5PM_

"Brennan?"

Absorbed in the report she was writing, she was slow to look up. And then, at the sight of Angela's tearful face, wished she'd been even slower. "Yes, Angela?"

"Are you heading home soon? I thought we might stop and get something to eat at the diner together."

_The diner? Without Booth? _"I really need to finish this report, Ange."

The other woman hesitated before finally speaking again. "Oh. I see. Okay, then. I'll see you tomorrow."

A tear streaked down her friend's face, leaving Brennan at a loss. She knew she should offer comfort, knew it was expected behavior of a close friend. But how did you comfort someone when there was no comfort? Booth was dead. Was always going to be dead. You didn't get past that kind of loss – you just picked up and kept going, kept doing whatever needed to be done. Wanting to say something, though, before Angela turned away, she finally settled on, 'Perhaps Hodgins will go with you?"

Angela nodded and left, and Brennan felt a burst of anger. What did they want from her? Wild tears? She was already secretly ashamed of her loss of control in the shower the day before. There would be no repeats of such wastes of energy.

She turned back to her report.

* * *

_Monday, 8PM_

"Dr. Brennan?"

She'd been staring, unseeing, at her monitor for quite sometime – something she simply never did – when she heard Sweets' voice.

Momentarily confused, it took her a moment to find her voice. "Dr. Sweets."

"I was wondering how you're doing? How are you coping with the loss of Agent Booth?"

"I'm fine, Sweets. Why wouldn't I be? He was my partner. He is now deceased, something which happens to everyone eventually."

His expression confused her, because she couldn't immediately identify it., though she might almost have labeled it smug. But that couldn't be right. It certainly made no sense in the current context. A part of her mind that refused to be quiet noted that Booth would have understood the look – wasn't that point of their partnership, that he was better than she was at reading people?

"I see. That's very good. I would have expected no less, given your ability to compartmentalize, but please let me know if you need assistance during this …adjustment period."

"I will continue to be fine, Dr. Sweets." Hoping he'd take the hint and leave, she turned back to her report aware of an unreasonable irritation with him. Psychology was subjective and therefore not really a science, but the young doctor had always seemed harmless enough. She heard him walk away, and focused once more on her report. Work would help her settle. It always did.

* * *

_Tuesday, 7AM_

Still in her car, she stared through the windows of the diner at 'their' table. It was currently unoccupied.

After her reaction to Angela's innocent question about getting something to eat last night, what had made her think she'd be able to follow their semi-regular pattern and get coffee here this morning? She pinched the bridge of her nose. It just must be that after working at the lab until 2AM and then having trouble sleeping, she needed the caffeine more than usual. Yes, that was it.

But she couldn't face going into the diner to get it. Not when he wasn't going to join her. Perhaps it was an emotional response that she shouldn't indulge in – after all, the coffee was the same – but, no. She'd make do with the vending machine coffee at the Jeffersonian. And tomorrow, she'd make her own coffee before leaving home.

* * *

_Tuesday, 6PM_

"Tempe?"

Deeply involved in an article in the latest issue of one of her professional journals, it took a moment for her to process her father's voice. "Oh…Dad." She stared at the man standing in her office door, completely at a loss. He'd called her several more times over the past two days – calls she'd not returned because she didn't know what to say.

"I wanted to see how you're doing."

"I'm fine." The words were automatic now.

He stared at her, and she had one of her rare flashbacks to her childhood, to before the day he and her mother had vanished. To a moment where she'd lied, insisted she was fine when she wasn't, about some childish disaster, and had known he knew it for a lie.

Just as he knew she was lying now.

The thought of that completely unnerved her. "I'm fine, Dad," she repeated.

"Booth was—" he started to say, then changed his mind. "You were close. I know how much he mattered to you."

Her throat wanted to close, and she simply overruled it. "He was my partner," she said, her tone even.

He just kept his steady gaze on her, and more memories crowded into her mind. Of going to him for help in rescuing Booth, and of his doing so without hesitation – even knowing her partner would arrest him in a heartbeat. Of the respect he had for Booth, and vice versa, despite their differences. She looked away, blinked. When she looked back, the compassion in her father's face was nearly her undoing.

This time, she had to clear her throat. "I'm fine, Dad. What would be the point of being otherwise? He was my partner," she swallowed, "and yes, my friend. But he's dead, and nothing I can do will change that. I learned that a long time ago." At that, he finally looked away, and she gave into the weariness and dropped her head into her hand. She regretted hurting him, but it was true. Loss was loss, and she was handling Booth's death the way she'd handled every other loss she'd experienced since that December so long ago.

"I know," he said after a moment. Apparently accepting she wasn't going to invite him in, he walked over to stand next to her, anyway. "There's a difference, now, Tempe," he said softly, and rested his hand on her shoulder. "You're not alone this time."

For one insane moment, she wanted to turn to him and weep. But what would that accomplish? She'd given into the need for such comfort more than once with Booth, and where had that gotten her in the end? A growing belief that she wasn't alone, that he would be there for her…a trust that had once more proved false. He was gone, and she would not make that mistake, of leaning on someone, again.

So she pulled away from the hand on her shoulder and stood. Turning to her father, she said, "Thank you, Dad. But I'm fine." At his look, she amended it to, "I will be fine. Work helps."

He nodded slowly. "I remember that." He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but then stepped away, stepped back toward the door. "Call Russ when you get a minute. He's worried about you, too. He and Amy are coming up for the funeral."

Her mind went blank. "Funeral?"

Still speaking gently, as if he understood something she didn't, Max said, "Booth's funeral. Did you think we wouldn't come, knowing what he meant to you? Even if he hadn't died saving you?"

Funeral? She'd heard Cam and Angela discussing it, but had managed to ignore those details, like she'd ignored a great deal else. She had gathered that for some reason, the funeral was being delayed by nearly two weeks, and no one quite knew why. It hadn't seemed relevant to her, as she had no plans to go.

She still wasn't going, even if her father and brother were. But there was no need to announce that at the moment. Not when she only wanted her father to leave.

But he was still waiting for her to say something. Her brain scrambled around and finally settled on, "I'm certain Booth would appreciate the gesture." Either that, or he'd be struck by the irony of felons attending his funeral.

"He was a very good man," Max said. Stepping forward again, he leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Call if you need me. Call if there's anything I can do. And call your brother, Temperance."

* * *

_Tuesday, 8PM_

With the thoroughness and attention to detail that never wavered, Brennan signed off on the form she'd filled out about the remains of the latest victim from limbo. She was making progress, even given the large number of unidentified remains, mostly of soldiers from an earlier time. But none of them had provided any kind of challenge.

What now? She was alone, and the quiet of the lab appealed to her in a way the quiet of her apartment never did. She'd seen Dr Sweets earlier, watching her, but he'd not spoken to her – much to her relief.

Maybe it was time to begin that article she'd committed to do for the Journal of Forensic Science.

Deciding to check her email first, she opened the program, skimmed through the recent entries. Then paused.

Five minutes later, she was still sitting, staring out her door at the empty lab. China. Forty thousand year old remains. The offer from a former classmate would have been appealing anytime. But at the moment, it felt like a lifeline. Her contact was cleared by the Chinese authorities to be there for the next four months, and he was extending an open-ended offer for Brennan to join him, anytime. She only needed a visa.

Perhaps the Chinese consulate would expedite it. Immediately would work very well.


	2. Chapter 2

_Wednesday, 10AM_

Brennan hung up the phone, sat back and thought about the offer she'd just received. She regularly received offers to lecture, or to attend digs such as the one in China. But she'd seldom been as tempted as she was by the one she'd just been offered.

A year long guest lectureship/research chair at Oxford, to begin after she'd finished with the work in China.

It was perfect.

She stared out at the lab, and then looked around her office. She may as well be honest – with Booth dead, the challenge was gone from working at the Jeffersonian. Oh, the FBI would no doubt assign another liaison, but it wouldn't be the same, even if the agent was amenable to her going out into the field.

The reason she and Booth worked so well together were the differences, differences which wouldn't be duplicated with another agent.

But to follow up the dig in China with a year of research in England? That would be a new experience for her. It was time to do something different. Perhaps it would have been time before long anyway, even without Booth's death.

And her desire for something different, for a new challenge, had nothing whatsoever to do with all the memories of her former partner that were everywhere she looked.

Absolutely nothing.

* * *

_Wednesday, 6PM_

Lance Sweets stood with Angela, Hodgins, and Zach, and watched Dr. Saroyan walk toward them. "Is Dr. Brennan joining us for supper?"

Looking troubled, the other woman shook her head. "She barely looked at me before returning to her examination of another set of bones from Bone Storage." She glanced back at the forensics platform, a sad look on her face. "We're going to lose her, too," she murmured.

A sense of dread that Cam was right was building in Sweets, but he asked the question anyway. "What do you mean?"

"She trusted him. And part of what she trusted him for was not to leave her. I'm not sure she'll recover from this."

Having spent three days watching Brennan withdraw further and further into her work and away from all her other relationships, he was beginning to agree, and that was very bad. It meant he'd been very, very wrong.

And it most likely meant he was going to be very, very dead when a certain very much alive FBI Special Agent – the same one who'd asked several times if Brennan was okay in the two brief phone calls he'd had with him – found out just how not okay Brennan was, and why.

* * *

_Thursday, 5:45 PM_

Sweets sat forward at his desk, rubbed his eyes. The one thing he didn't know and couldn't anticipate was whether it would be worse at this point to tell Brennan the truth or not. That seemed the obvious course of action, but he'd been so far wrong in his earlier assessment of how she'd handle Booth's 'death' that he was now floundering, afraid that anything he did might make the situation worse.

If a few more days went by, would she find her balance enough to take comfort in the other relationships in her life? Would it be beneficial at this point for her to discover that she had enough support to cope with loss? Could good for her yet come out of this mess? Could he take that chance? Did he have the right to do so?

No. He'd never had the right – FBI psychologist or not – to make the choice he'd made for her. He saw that now. What he couldn't see was how he'd been so damn wrong as to think that Brennan, of all people, would somehow survive the kind of blow he'd dealt her by not telling her the truth.

"Dr. Sweets?"

He looked up, saw Cam in the door of his office. And knew from the look on her face that the situation had deteriorated. He stood, braced himself. "What is it, Dr. Saroyan? What's wrong?"

She crossed his office, and on her face he could see the tracks of tears. "Dr. Brennan just resigned. Effective immediately. She's going to China on a dig, then to Oxford."

He sat back down, mostly because his legs gave out. Shit, shit, shit. This was worse than anything he'd imagined. "Immediately? Doesn't she have to give notice, or something?"

"Technically, she should, but she has weeks of unused vacation time, and I can't very well refuse her on the basis of there being a lot of work right now." She rubbed her eyes tiredly. "Booth told me once that if she left the others would go, too. I don't know if that will happen or not, because the situation is different. But I could use you when I break the news to them that she's leaving."

"Of course." Though if Dr. Brennan actually left, he wouldn't be around to help what was left of the Jeffersonian team process the loss. He would be dead. Booth was going to see to that.

Well, before facing Booth, he'd do what he could to correct the situation. If Brennan was leaving for China and then England, the question of whether it might somehow yet be turned to her advantage to still not tell her the truth was no longer an issue. He stood, on legs that still weren't quite steady, and berated himself again. He had multiple advanced degrees in the study of human nature. How could he have been so wrong?

Plainly startled by his abrupt movement, Cam asked, "Where are you going?"

"Is Dr. Brennan still at the lab? I need to talk to her."

"She's still there. I think she's planning to work through the weekend, identifying as many sets of bones from Bone Storage as possible before she goes to China. But I don't think you're going to make much difference."

Maybe. But if anything could make a difference, it would be the truth.

* * *

_Thursday, 6:30PM_

Rather than work on another set of unidentified remains from limbo, Brennan had decided to spend the evening tying up lose ends at her desk and beginning to clear out her office. That would free her up to spend Friday through Sunday working on identification. She'd see how many remains she could identify over the weekend, and after that, it would be up to the others to continue that work. Zach was quite capable of doing most of the bone work she'd been doing, and if Dr. Saroyan took her advice, he'd be given the opportunity to do so. It was all she could do, for any of them.

Believing she was alone, the knock on her door startled her. "Dr. Sweets." She didn't have the time for another of his how-are-you discussions. They were pointless and a waste of time she didn't have. Besides, she'd _be _fine – once she was in China, and away from here. Away from the memories, and the pain. "I'm rather busy right now."

"I know. But it's important." He didn't ask if he could come in, probably knowing she'd refuse. Instead, he came in and closed the door. "Dr. Saroyan told me you resigned."

"That is her prerogative, of course, as the news clearly distressed her. But I've got a lot to d—"

"There's something you don't know. It's important."

"That somehow relates to my resignation? I doubt that very much, as my decision was personal and based on several very good offers I received this week."

"Agent Booth is alive."

For a long, silent moment she simply stared at him and tried to make sense of the words. Was Sweets religious, like Booth? She wouldn't have thought so, since he seemed to see himself as a scientist – even though psychology clearly wasn't a science. But his trying to convince her that Booth was in heaven was the only way his words made sense.

"Dr. Sweets, if you find comfort in the thought of an afterlife, that's fine, though it makes me question, again, the fact that you see yourself as a scientist. But since such an afterlife can't be proven, you have no business making such an absolute statement, particularly when I've told you I'm quite busy. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to return to what I was doing."

"I'm not talking about heaven. He's at a safe house. I've spoken to him twice since Sunday. He's still recovering from the gunshot, but is very much alive, Dr. Brennan."

She dropped the folder she'd been holding, only distantly aware of the thunk it made when it landed on her desk. Booth was alive? And he'd not called her? Had allowed her to spend the better part of a week believing he was dead? Remembering her wild grief in the shower, and that she'd actually set up a trust fund for his son, anger curled in her stomach.

"I see."

"Years ago, an investigation went bad, with the suspect disappearing, going underground. The last contact was a note he sent to Agent Booth saying that the next time anyone saw him would be at Booth's funeral. So the bureau used this injury to stage Booth's death in hopes that it will flush out the suspect."

It made sense. It just didn't change anything. "I see," she said again. "So everyone close to Booth has to think he's dead, as well?"

"It's safest, yes, that as few people as possible know."

Suddenly horrified, she said, "Parker, too?" It was one thing for Booth to have betrayed her, but would he have allowed his son to be tormented in such a way? If so, he really wasn't the man she'd believed him to be.

"No. Booth spoke to him on Sunday night on the phone, and then the bureau paid for Rebecca to take him to DisneyWorld for two weeks. Hopefully, the suspect will believe they're just in seclusion, and it's something positive for Parker to do given he can't see his father right now."

Well, the fact that it was an FBI operation explained the delay in the funeral.

Then what Sweets had said really registered. Booth had spoken to Parker. So he could have called her, too. And hadn't.

There were different kinds of loss, she discovered. Believing he was dead had been one kind. Knowing he'd allowed her to believe that, to believe he'd died for her, when he could have called her, was a different kind of hurt altogether.

But just like all pain, this, too, could be put away. Managed.

"I see. And Booth's brother, and grandfather?"

"They were told the truth."

"But I, as his partner, didn't deserve to know the truth? Did he think I wouldn't be convincing enough if I knew it wasn't true?" Her tone was even, and she saw some of the tension ease out of Sweets' shoulders.

"The fewer people who know, the greater the chance of success of the operation."

"Of course." Her office no longer felt like the sanctuary it usually was. Deciding to go home and begin packing, she reached down for her briefcase. Then she looked back at him. "So there was a list of some sort, of people he judged important enough to know the truth, and his partner isn't on that list?"

A new thought occurred to her, and she said, "Is he angry at me, because he was hurt saving me? I was not responsible for that – I didn't ask him to step in front of that bullet," she ended on a bitter note.

"What? No! That didn't have anything to do with it. He's grateful it was him and not you. You must know that." He looked away. "Actually…"

"What?"

He swallowed, and looked back at her. "You were on the list. Booth thinks you know the truth. It was my decision not to tell you, because…the fewer the number of people who know, the better."

So Booth thought she knew the truth. But he hadn't called her to make sure. Hadn't called to put her mind at ease, when her last image of him, the last time she'd seen him, he'd been covered in blood. Blood that should have been hers. She began putting files into the briefcase.

"So you'll stay? You'll tear up your resignation?"

Baffled, she looked back up at the psychologist. "No. Why would I?"

"Because Booth isn't really dead. He'll be back in just over a week, and you'll resume your work together."

"Dr. Sweets, my resignation had little to do with believing Booth to be dead, beyond showing me that I find the work I was originally hired by the Jeffersonian to do no longer challenging. Agent Booth has a good working relationship with the others here and I'm sure the type of cases he and I have worked on together will still be solved, albeit more slowly without me." She paused, swallowed. "This has simply shown me there's nothing special about our partnership, nothing that can't be duplicated by others. I'm still leaving for China on Tuesday morning."

"Of course your partnership is special. The two of you work very well together to be so different in your approaches to investigation."

There was a hint of desperation in his voice, now, but she ignored it. "If our partnership was anything out of the ordinary, he would have called me himself."

"But…" the words trailed off into silence. Then he said, "You're blaming him for something I did."

"No. I'm just accepting the lesson the week has taught me. Nothing you've said here has changed my belief that now is a good time for me to challenge myself in new ways. And now, if you'll excuse me, Dr. Sweets, I'm going to go home and begin packing. Please turn out the lights when you leave."

* * *

_Thursday, 8PM_

It took over an hour for Lance to drive out to the safe house. It was large, surrounded by trees and an elaborate security system, and the neighbors all believed it was owned by a couple who traveled much of the time. He didn't know how the bureau could afford such a place – perhaps it had been a tax write-off by a wealthy politician. He did know it was occasionally used by other government departments to house VIPs. Regardless, it had been the perfect place for Booth to hide for the duration.

He punched in the code at the gate, and then drove through feeling very much as if he was going to his doom.

Booth wouldn't really kill him. He knew that. But he was a protective alpha male who was going to view what Lance had done as harmful to someone Booth cared about, and he'd be right in doing so.

No, he wouldn't kill him, but he might hit him. Sweat slid down his spine as the thought triggered memories of his early childhood, and he swallowed.

The problem was that he hadn't deserved what had happened to him as a young child, and he did deserve whatever Booth wanted to do to him now. The look on Brennan's face when she'd understood that her partner had called his son, but not her…she'd tried to hide the hurt, had retreated to a rational explanation of how her decision to leave wasn't tied to Booth, but had failed. Indeed, he rather thought that any child would have been able to see the hurt and betrayal there.

He'd tried to view her and Booth as just partners because everything about their working situation became more complicated if they were more than that. But that determination to see in their relationship only what he wanted to see, a type of bias that, ironically, only confirmed Dr. Brennan's worst opinions of psychology, had led him to make a serious error in his assessment of her.

And he wasn't sure it could be fixed.

Well, sitting in the car wasn't going to help, and it wasn't doing much to build up his courage, either. He'd hoped telling her the truth would make a difference, he'd hoped that it would be unnecessary to admit to anyone else just how badly he'd screwed up until at least the FBI operation was over. He'd been as wrong in that as he had been in everything else.

If anything could help at this point, it started with the man inside the house, so he quietly opened the car door and moved across to the side door off the garage, then used his key card for entrance.

Booth was waiting for him in the kitchen when he stepped through the connecting door, leaning against the counter. The monitors on the counter next to the other man showed a view of both the gate he'd driven through and the door he'd entered, and proved that the agent, however he might look, was taking his security seriously.

And he looked …rough. He had several days growth of beard, his skin was sallow, and he had dark circles beneath his eyes. The first few days he'd had nurses with him, but then they'd gone, and Lance had not really considered just what it meant for Booth to be here, by himself, when he was still recovering from a bullet. Maybe his superiors had forgotten that, too.

But Booth's question was to the point. "Sweets, what are you doing here? What's going on?"

Still struggling to find the words to explain what he'd done, he didn't answer immediately – and discovered quite quickly that however ill Booth might still look, he was strong and his reflexes as quick as ever, as he grabbed him by the shirt and pinned him to the wall. "Is it Parker? Is my son okay?"

Lance managed to nod, and Booth dropped him, but still stood aggressively close to him. "Then what? You shouldn't be here. It's a violation of protocol. And you wouldn't be, unless something is wrong."

"I screwed up, Agent Booth. I made a mistake."

The words, baldly stated, startled both of them. He'd planned to try and explain in some rational fashion what had happened and what he'd done, but nothing he'd come up with during the drive came close to justifying it.

"What? What did you do?"

"I – I lied to you. And I lied to Dr. Brennan."

Booth's color faded. "You didn't." His hands came up, gripped Lance's collar again. "Tell me you're not talking about what I think you're talking about."

He cleared his throat, and the words still came out as a whisper. "I didn't tell her you're alive."

Something dangerous and feral came into the other man's eyes, and Lance wanted desperately to flinch as he waited. Even with the agent injured, he had no hope of defending himself.

"You what?" Booth shoved him hard against the wall. "Fuck! Do you know what you've done?" For a moment, the fury in his eyes intensified, and then shut down as control came back. He dropped Lance and turned away to brace himself against the counter, still swearing.

Rubbing the back of his head and considering himself lucky, Lance swallowed, and waited. When Booth turned back to him, the rage was still there, but so was pain, and he suddenly understood that he'd damaged two people, not just one.

Booth brought his hands up, rubbed his face, then looked at him. "Why? And tell me the truth, damn it."

It was hard to meet those eyes. He'd chosen the field he'd chosen because he wanted to help people. Wanted to save them, no less than the man across from him did. He would never be the type of hero Booth was, but he'd at least wanted the other man's respect. He swallowed again. "I wanted to see what she would do. I-I have this need to understand how people get past childhood trauma to become successful adults. And Dr. Brennan…"

Booth was staring at him as if he'd grown an extra head. "An experiment. You did this to her, to us, as a fucking experiment?"

"I…yes. I was wrong."

"Aren't you supposed to be a trained psychologist? What part of 'she was abandoned as a child' didn't you understand? Have you just missed all the clues about how hard it is for her to form bonds with other people?"

Lance shook his head. "I have no excuse, Agent Booth. I just wanted to see if her ability to compartmentalize her emotions would extend to her being able to cope better with your loss than you expected her to do."

"Don't most shrinks see tucking feelings away in a box as a bad thing, Sweets?" He held up his hand. "Never mind – don't answer that. But what happened instead of what you were expecting? How is she? And what's happened now, that you're here?"

"She's withdrawn from everyone around her, has pretty much been working around the clock, and…she resigned today. She's going to China, then to a position at Oxford." He spoke the last very fast, wondering if his head would be bounced off the wall again, but Booth's only response was to slump against the counter and resume swearing. "I told her the truth today, but it didn't seem to make a difference."

"Not quite what you theorized, in other words?" The sarcasm bit at him. "Aren't there strict ethical rules for using people as lab rats?"

All he could do was be honest, but oh, the words were hard to say. "Yes. And I should lose my license for it." His parents would have been so disappointed in him. He pushed those thoughts away, though. None of this was about him.

Booth sighed. "You're making it damned difficult to beat the shit out of you the way you deserve." He walked toward him. "Give me your keys."

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm going to go see Bones." He spoke the words slowly, as if to a child.

"But…the FBI operation?" He'd assumed Booth would call her. Nevertheless, he handed over his keys.

Booth took the keys, then stared at him, hard. "I'll call Cullen and update him on my way to see her. If we're lucky, I'll get to her place and back here without being seen, and the operation will go forward. If you're not lucky, I won't, and it will be blown. In which case, I promise you, Sweets, the entire FBI will know why this very expensive op went south." He turned toward the door to the garage. "And as for you…if I can't talk her out of leaving, you'd better be right behind her, or all bets are off."

He stalked out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thursday, 10PM_

She didn't bother answering the knock at first. It didn't matter who it was – her father, Angela, Sweets – she didn't want to talk to them.

But when it came again, harder, she at least went to see who it was.

She nearly didn't recognize the man at her door. Exhausted, possibly ill, several days' growth of beard. Then he looked up, stared straight at her through the peep hole. "Bones, I know you're in there. I saw the lights on. And I just heard you move toward the door. I'm not leaving until we talk."

She forgot about China, forgot about Oxford, forgot about being angry because he hadn't called her. Remembering only the anguish of believing he had left her, she wrenched open the door and reached for him. "Booth!"

But right before they would have met in a hug, she froze, her gaze on his upper chest. "I shouldn't hug you. Your wound."

He stepped in, closed the door behind him, and then pulled her to him. "I'm fine, Bones. It wasn't as bad as it looked. I'm fine."

She gave in, buried her face in his shoulder, and for just a few moments, let the relief wash over her, allowed herself to believe they, too, were fine.

But then it crept back: the pain of thinking him dead. The hurt of knowing he'd allowed it. The fear of going through it again.

No. She couldn't do it.

She swallowed, and stepped back. It had always been hard to pull herself away from his 'guy hugs' and how they made her feel. But this time…she turned, moved away from him. "You shouldn't be here. You're in hiding."

"Did you think I wouldn't come, when Sweets told me what he had done?"

She didn't respond, didn't know how to. No, it hadn't occurred to her that he would leave the safe house and come looking for her.

"Bones, I'm sorry."

Beyond the weariness in his tone, there was anguish, enough to make her turn and face him again. He was standing where she'd left him, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

"You didn't call me."

"I know. I should have. I told you once I wouldn't betray you, and I did, because I trusted you to the wrong person."

Her anger was slipping away in the face of his distress. "Why didn't you?"

"Call you?"

"Yes."

"I was trying to follow protocol for once, and didn't talk to anyone but Parker, and him only once. I trusted Sweets."

"I see." She didn't know what to say next, and after a moment of silence, settled on blunt. "Well, you can go back to the safe house, now. I'm fine."

"Yeah, I can see that. How many meals have you skipped this week? How much sleep have you had?"

"Those are irrelevant questions, Booth. But if you must stay, you'll have to come back to the bedroom. I'm packing."

She didn't know why she was pushing him to leave. She didn't want him to go, not really. She'd be in China by the time he was back to work, which meant this was the last time she'd see him. For a very long time, maybe forever, if she didn't return to D.C. after Oxford. But she didn't know what to say to him, so she turned, made her way back to the bedroom.

He followed her, stood quietly watching her as she moved carefully folded garments to the open suitcase.

"So you're still leaving, then?"

Surprised, she looked up. "Of course I am. It's an opportunity to study forty thousand year old bones. A return to my first love."

"I see."

"Did you think your not really being dead would cause me to change my plans? You're not the reason I'm leaving."

"No?"

"No. I just happened to receive two very compelling offers this week, opportunities I would be foolish to pass on."

"And you've not received other 'compelling' offers while we've worked together?"

She couldn't answer that without lying, and so went back to transferring clothes into the suitcase.

"I think you're running, Bones. I think this week scared you, because it made you aware of how much I matter to you, and what it would be like if I did die. And so you're leaving, thinking that's better than being close to someone."

"You're very arrogant, Booth."

"Hello, pot, this is kettle," he muttered.

"What?"

"Never mind. I notice you didn't deny what I said."

"I'm leaving because I received two very attractive offers."

"Damn it, Bones. You do understand that I was betrayed, too? Sweets didn't just tell me he'd told you I was alive. He then lied when I asked how you were."

"I understand that, Booth. But I'm still going to China and then Oxford, and it has nothing to do with you. I've merely realized that my work at the Jeffersonian, apart from our cases, is no longer as challenging as it once was."

"Fine. But I want you to think about something. This time, you're the one who's doing the abandoning. I think you see yourself as the person who gets left behind, the victim. And everything is about protecting yourself from that, from how it feels. But every time you walk away, you're doing the same thing to someone else. And I can tell you, I damn well feel abandoned."

Shocked, she started to speak, only to stop when he held up his hand. "And furthermore…ask yourself this. I will die, some day. So will you. So will your father, and Russ. Will leaving us really make that better? If Cam emails you in three months and tells you I died – for real, this time – will being in Oxford or wherever make it hurt less?"

No. The thought of it took her breath away, even more now that she knew how it felt for him to be dead. But before she could form words to reply, he was speaking again, albeit more quietly.

"The truth is that you could go to China for a few weeks, as you've done before. You could do the same with Oxford – you could even take a leave of absence from the Jeffersonian and go for an entire semester. We'd miss you – I'd miss you – but we'd know you were coming back. But you didn't do that, and I think you should ask yourself why. It doesn't have anything to do with opportunities. You're running away, and in the process, doing the same thing to me, to us, that you're afraid of happening to you.

"You're right," he said abruptly. "I need to get back to the safe house. Good-bye, Temperance." He turned, started back toward the living room.

She caught up with him at the door. "Booth, don't. Please. Don't go."

He turned back, looking more defeated than she'd ever seen him. Reaching out, he touched her cheek, and only then did she realize she was weeping. "I'm not the one who's leaving, Bones."

She choked on a sob and started to turn away, only to be pulled back into his arms. And pressing her face against his shoulder, she wept.

Gradually the storm of tears subsided, and only then did she become aware that he was talking to her, murmuring words of comfort. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I'll never leave you on purpose," he said. "And I'll never again trust you to someone else."

Exhausted, she simply leaned against him, let the comfort he offered wash away the pain of the past days.

Finally, he backed away, just a bit, wiped her cheeks with his thumbs, and just stared at her. "Are we okay, Bones? Are you going to leave me?"

Fresh tears streaked down her cheeks as she shook her head. "No. I'll still go at some point, but not for so long."

"Thank you." He closed his eyes, lowered his forehead to rest against hers, and she wondered if he was praying.

Then he lifted his head, and sighed. "I really should get back to the safe house, but first…I need to know what you want to do about Sweets. I spoke to Cullen on the way over here, and he's leaving it up to us."

"What do you mean?"

"What Sweets did wasn't just a violation of every psychological ethics standard there is, it was also a serious violation of FBI protocol. The reason these kinds of ops work is because the agent knows his or her family is okay, that the people he needs to know the truth are told. He's not left wondering if the people he cares about are in pain. It's the only way they can ask someone to do what they asked me to do, and Sweets ignored that."

"What did Cullen say?"

"I told him I don't think Sweets will do it again. There's something there…" he frowned. "Sweets said something about needing to understand how children who've survived a trauma – like you did, when your parents left – become successful adults. But it felt very personal to me, when he said it. I think whatever it is blinded him to what he was doing. I don't think it will happen again, but Cullen said he'd leave the consequences for Sweets up to us."

"What do you mean?"

"We were the injured parties. Sweets caused me to break to a promise to you, caused me to betray you, when I'd said I never would. He lied to me, let me think you were okay when you clearly weren't. And you, you were definitely hurt. So Cullen says it's up to us. If we want him gone, he'll lose his job over it, and Cullen will register a complaint with the licensure organization. But if we're willing to overlook it, it will just be a notation in his file."

Barely aware that she was still leaning against him, his arms around her, Brennan gave the question serious consideration. Finally, she looked at him. "I think we should forgive him. He's very young, Booth, and everyone makes mistakes, particularly when they're young."

""Everyone?" he asked in a teasing tone.

"Everyone. Well, everyone but Zach. He's young and he hasn't made any."


End file.
